


Those Who Love Deeply

by mydogwatson



Series: Once Upon A Time At Xmas [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mince pie, Old Age, xmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One more Xmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Love Deeply

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the end, folks, and I hope you think it has been worth the journey.   
> Wishing everyone whatever makes them happy today. As for me, we are going to have a lovely meal and then go see Star Wars. (Have to do something until 1 January, right?
> 
> Let me know what you think about this.

Those who love deeply never grow  
old; they may die of old age,  
but they die young.

-Benjamin Franklin

 

John worked carefully to hang the faded and frayed stockings, one embroidered with a J and the other with an S, on the mantel, before adding the Santa hat to the skull. After standing back just a bit to appraise his efforts, he gave a sharp nod of satisfaction and then shuffled slowly over to the sofa, settling carefully next to his husband. “There’s my decorating done,” he said, his voice slightly raspy, as it had been since his heart surgery several years earlier. But since the surgeon had given him, at well over eighty, rather poor odds of surviving the operation at all, he considered himself lucky.

He never told the doctor that survival was the only option because he could not bear the thought of Sherlock spending all those hours sitting in that dreadful plastic chair only to be told that his husband had died.

Now Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading, blinking at him from behind his glasses. His hair was all white now, but still thick and his eyes were as compelling as ever. “You don’t plan on going into the woods with your axe then?” he teased.

John huffed a laugh at the idea. “Been at least fifteen years since I did that. And it was ridiculous even then. You fretted.”

“Just a bit.” Sherlock lifted a parchment white, blue-veined hand and ran a finger over John’s cheek. “But I was also rather pleased, because it always made you smell so delightful.”

“So you always said. Made you quite fervent.”

“I remember licking the sweat from your neck. It was my very favourite holiday tradition.” Sherlock bent his head a little and touched his tongue to John’s neck. “Mmm.”

“No sweat,” John pointed out wryly.

“But still my favourite taste.”

“Git.” John kissed his cheek.

They sat in silence for a moment, just gazing at one another, as if all the years of looking had left them still wanting more. Sherlock pulled a worryingly shallow breath into his reluctant lungs. But they only smiled at one another as John took and held Sherlock’s hand. “Thirty-three Xmases we have had here,” he said. “Seems impossible.”

“Improbable, at any rate,” Sherlock replied.

Before John could respond to that, they both heard the slow and careful click-clack of dog paws against the wooden floor. Gladstone IV came into the room, gave them a glance and a slight butt wriggle in greeting, then settled carefully on his blanket by the fire. A sigh escaped him as his old bones settled.

“Gladstone won’t make another Xmas,” John murmured.

Sherlock gripped his hand a little more tightly. “Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?”

John understood perfectly what he was saying and so he just nodded. There was no sense in talking about what could not be helped. Instead, he gestured towards the stockings he had just hung. “Mrs. Hudson would be amazed to know that all these years later the stockings she made for us are still hanging on our mantel.”

“She would be delighted. A very wise woman, our not-housekeeper.”

“She adored you,” John pointed out.

“Indeed. Although she also despaired of me, until I had you in my life.”

A log in the fireplace broke apart and popped. Gladstone lifted his head just a little to glare at the disturbance and then was asleep again before his head hit the blanket. John chuckled. “We have been lucky in our friends,” he said after a moment. “Mrs Hudson. Greg. Molly. Even Mycroft, finally.”

All of them gone long ago, of course.

“You forgot one,” Sherlock pointed out. “The most important, in fact.”

John thought for a moment and then smiled. “Mike Stamford.”

“Without him, our meeting at the Albert Hall might have been the last time we saw one another.” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s hair as if contemplating never having had the opportunity to do that.

For a moment, John was tempted to tell his husband about the theory he’d long held but never verbalised. Age had not dimmed Sherlock’s tendency towards nor talent at mockery and John had no desire to court it. His theory was simple: That had the meeting in the lab never happened, they still would have met again somehow, somewhere. He could not conceive of a life without Sherlock in it. Frankly, he could not really imagine a universe in which Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not partners.

But he could easily imagine the reception Sherlock would give to such a fanciful theory, so he kept it tucked into his heart.

It was almost time for their evening tea, which had long since become ritualised. John would put the kettle on and brew up, as Sherlock still insisted that John’s tea was the best. At the same time, Sherlock would make some toast or maybe just bread and honey. Their stock from when Sherlock still tended the bees was very nearly exhausted, but that was all right as well. 

Tonight, however, since it was Xmas Eve, they had a special treat, freshly baked little mince pies, brought over by the young newlywed who lived just up the road and who thought they were a sweet old couple. Sherlock had bristled at the description when the postman cheerfully passed it along. John had then been required to spend an hour reassuring him that no one in the world thought Sherlock Holmes was in any way sweet.

There was even double crème for the top of the pies, so they were both looking forward to it.

After the tea and pies were finished, they would work together to tidy the kitchen as the fire died out. John would let Gladstone out for one last time [a quick trip that would be, because neither of them liked the cold.) Sherlock would make a last check of doors and windows and power down his laptop. Usually they would then go straight to bed, but tonight John planned to pour them each a small port in celebration.

But all of that was still to come, because neither of them was quite ready to move from their cozy cuddle on the sofa yet.

“John,” Sherlock said in a lazy drawl, “I have a very important question to ask you.”

“Well, we’re married already, so it can’t be that,” John said teasingly. “Although I would happily do it again.”

“As would I,” was Sherlock’s soft reply. Then he gave a half-laugh, which had him struggling a bit for his next breath.

John gently caressed his arm until the other man had recovered.

“However,” he said finally, “that is not the question. A very long time ago, I wanted to be a pirate and sail the oceans in search of treasure and adventure. Recently, I begin to think that it might be lovely to do so now. Do you think it’s too late?”

John smiled and nuzzled at Sherlock’s ear. “I think that is a fine idea.”

“Will you come with me?”

“To the ends of the earth.” John chuckled and pulled back a little. “However, I should tell you that this is not the first time I have had such an offer. Many, many years ago I was offered the position of first mate on a pirate ship.”

Sherlock stilled and then stared at John as if seeing him for the first time. When he finally spoke, it was in a bare whisper. “At the Santa’s Grotto.” It wasn’t a question.

John blinked at him. “Oh, my god,” he said. And then he laughed until tears ran down his face.

Gladstone stared at him quizzically. Sherlock just shook his head, a faint smile on his lips.

 

Eventually they did move from the sofa. John made the tea and Sherlock spooned far too much double crème onto their pies. They ate and drank and chatted idly about past Xmases, including two little boys in the queue at Santa’s Grotto. About a Xmas lunch in a church hall. And finally about a concert in London. They did not talk about the years they were apart on the holiday, as those did not matter. They finished the evening with some port, bid Gladstone a fond goodnight and went into their bedroom.

“Snowing pretty hard out there now,” John said as he closed the curtains against drafts.

Sherlock pulled the worn quilt down and slid into the bed. “Come to bed, husband,” he said firmly. “You know I cannot sleep unless I am wrapped around you.”

John turned off the lamp and got into the bed as well, scooting close to Sherlock. They intertwined together in a well-practised manoeuvre, as the snow blew against the window, but they were warm and content.

With Sherlock’s breath caressing his skin, John closed his eyes, knowing that it was time for him to talk, to tell the secret he had kept safe for so long. It was Xmas Eve and it was snowing outside, so John told his beloved a story about how there could be no universe in which Sherlock Holmes and John Watson did not meet. In which they would not love one another for as long as they lived.

The storm grew fiercer outside. Their last dog was snoring contentedly in the parlour. And Sherlock listened to a tale of two men who would always meet. Always love. He did not interrupt. He did not mock

They fell asleep with the last words of John’s tale still hovering between them.

*

Men could not part us…  
Nor the seas change us,  
Nor the tempests bend;  
Our hands would touch for  
All the mountains---and   
Heaven being rolled between us  
At the end, we should but vow  
Faster for the stars.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

FINI

**Author's Note:**

> The end of this.  
> I hope to begin work on a new long AU in the very near future.  
> Peace...


End file.
